Species of Barbers

I got a haircut today.
It was very nice.
I can see now!
And the lovely frigid Logan air is hitting my head full-force, since the unruly mop is no longer there to deflect it.
Favorite part: When they use the buzzer on the back of my neck. I might have to buy a buzzer just for that.

The ladies in salons/barber shops are often, well, interesting.
Mostly in a bad way.
For the most part, I've had bad experiences with hairdressers.
They look at me, a hairy teenager, and figure that I'm just going to settle for some of my shaggy head-material all over the floor and itching my ears for a few hours until the next time it gets long enough to bug me.
Some of them have been good, yes, but I don't skip into the hair salon and plunk myself into the nearest chair, quivering with excitement for the hair particles I get to pick out of my shirt afterward.
Here's a few interesting types of hair dressers I (and probably you) have encountered.


The Mouse
This is a really quiet type, usually short-haired but not excessively so, who hardly says a word. I'm not one to want to chat with every person that comes near me 100% of the time, but I feel a little bit awkward if someone who's suddenly taken an immense interest in my head doesn't say a word to me. Am I doing something wrong? Do I intimidate you? Doth my hair offend you, oh mighty barberess? More often than not, this poor lady won't seem to be too sure of herself, and will mess up slightly here and there. Just ask me what I want, and if I'm happy with what you did, so you don't act like you're afraid that I'm going to whirl around and yell: "THIS HAIRCUT IS THE MOSTEST AWFULLEST HAIRCUT EVER. A RABID HEDGEHOG COULD DO BETTER THAN THIS! I'M GOING TO STICK MY HEAD IN A BLENDER TO GET RID OF YOUR AWFUL HAIRCUT."

The Sorority Girl
This type. Ohhhh this type. The 20 something type with really short hair, lightning quick hands, and a mouth that won't quit moving. Quite honestly, I've received my best haircuts from the younger ladies (maybe they sympathize with me a bit more or something) but please, for the love of everything tranquil and sane, could you give me a break? I don't know why you find such an interest in the scent of my dog's breath, the trees in my front yard, or the shape of my professors' noses, but do you see anyone else in any social setting asking these kinds of questions? Then, to make matters worse, do you have to interrupt me and compose a Hamlet-worthy monologue about your own dog's breath and how it killed 37 cats last year? I came for a haircut, not a counseling session. No, I won't tell you how often I clip my fingernails. That's just weird.

The Cookie Cutter
You walk in, some scissors and a buzzer get rid of some hair, and you leave. Regardless of what you asked for or what you suggested during the haircut, this gum-smacking gal just out of a training program will give you a machine-pressed haircut that quite honestly only looks good on five year old boys. Most of these are found in Great Clips.

The Nosy Housewife
Do you ever sit down in a restaurant or at a bus stop and hear on-going gossip about sensitive topics on a regular basis? Not usually, but it does happen sometimes. Apparently, though I'm not sure why, hair salons create a privacy invasion sphere where it's okay to talk about whatever the heck you want. Husbands, other ladies at church, husbands' annoying habits, other peoples' kids, things they wish their husbands would do but don't, how often celebrities pick their nose, and more of the shortcomings of husbands. Some rather invasive and sharp things are traded back and forth by some of these ladies, who all seem to be under the impression that it's perfectly acceptable to discuss how annoying it is when their significant others leave a pair of stinky boxers on the floor. I once was stuck with two of these gals  talking over my head, whilst I and the other unfortunate gentleman getting his hair cut had a silent pity party with each other. Thank you Lord for sending that man. I doubt I would have made it out alive if I had to suffer alone.

The Gargoyle
The worst of the worst. The most horrible and inconsiderate of them all. The one who asks you what you want, then ignores you completely. She proceeds to give you what she thinks would look better instead of what you asked for. From the moment you sit in the chair to the moment you leave you are simply a bag of meat with a wig on for the gargoyle to cackle over and mutilate however she wishes. Then you leave with Lord knows what artistic abomination on your head. And weep softly in front of a mirror.


A piece of advice: get a haircut at a local hair salon, not some big commercialized outfit like Super Cuts. If you really don't care, well, go ahead. May your flowing locks rest in peace.

Dead Week

Dead week.

What an ironic term.

More like

HOLY COW I'M GONNA FREAKING DIE IN A PUDDLE OF MY OWN TEARS ALONE IN A CAVE IN THE LIBRARY

week.

That's got a nice ring to it, I think I'll keep it.

What's that, you ran out of coffee?

You poor soul, may you rest in peace.

Peacefully asleep drooling on your textbook in a study cubicle.

I have an idea.

What if, *cough professors* students had a lightened workload during dead week?

So that, you know, they retain their sanity. And their ability to speak English.

You've had all semester long to teach us stuff, so why don't you lay off for five days while we work on

-final papers

-cramming for finals

instead of giving us the normal course workload on top of it?

I suppose you're the professor, and I'm the student. The grunt. The hunchback who says

"YEETHHPPTHPHPT MATHPHPHPBVHPTTER!" and promptly hobbles off to a computer to type the night away.

I have an idea. Another one.

What if the library installed a dead week room? This room would be filled with

-pillows

-microwaves

-professional masseuses.

Masseuse. Love that word. I can sound really pompous if I use that word.

Good night. I'm gonna go microwave a burrito, lay in my fluffy bed with a pillow, and wish I had a masseuse.

CHICKEN!

            The truck bounced along a very poorly maintained dirt road, bound for a small village in the Gog region. Trees, bushes, and plants of a billion varieties lined the road, impenetrable to the human eye. Short, leafy bushes covered the ground, the gaps between them filled with elephant grass that reached six or seven feet, sometimes ten or more. Tall, wiry trees filled the rest of the view upward. The entire scene seemed composed of the same brilliant, shimmering, almost glowing shade of green, as if the wellspring of the world was beneath our feet and the plants were constantly inebriated by it. Most interesting and amazing to me were massive trees spaced hundreds of feet apart, as if each one guarded a separate realm. These behemoths stretched (from what I could tell) one or two hundred feet into the air, the crests of their bulky, wooded heads spreading a fan of the same vivid viridescence to the sky. A massive ‘thud’ shook the entire truck, throwing my head against the window and jerking my attention away from the trees.

Ethiopia didn’t have a parks and rec program to maintain it’s roads. Hence the massive potholes that sent my butt flying into my skull every few seconds if the driver couldn’t dodge them. He was driving at a ridiculous speed, as if a horde of eight-year-old vendors at the merkata in Addis Abeba were chasing him down to sell him “banana gum! Five birr! Just five birr!” This hell-bent speed combined with an attempt to dodge the worst of the potholes sent the dusty white truck careening across the road like a cockroach that just took a swim in a pot of coffee. Six or seven hitchhikers sat in the truck bed; any vehicle moving along this road was rare and easy prey for swarms of people wanting quick passage.

            We shot past several groups of people, who all scrambled for their lives to get off the road as our impatient Amharic driver, his brighter skin contrasting heavily with the sable skin of the Anuaks, relentlessly laid his foot on the gas. On several occasions, a small, turkey-like bird would be in the middle of the road, its long neck and small head swaying as it surveyed the white hunk of steel hurtling toward it. Clueless to its impending doom, we simply plowed straight over it. I never saw the pulverized feathery remains of our many victims, due to the people crammed in the back.

            We soon arrived at our destination, a trail of feathers and panicked Anuaks stretching miles behind us. The hitchhikers simply gathered their meager belongings and went about their business as if tailbone-cracking flights through the jungle happened every day. At least I was safe in the cab; somehow they had managed to avoid flying into a tree full of baboons.

            We had brought several hundred dollars worth of medication with us along with some medical equipment, and were planning to run an all-day clinic for the locals. A doctor’s station (built by the British) was there, but there hadn’t been a doctor or nurse in it for years.

            Hence the huge line of people wanting help. Most of them just had an infection of some kind, which a simple antibiotic could fix, but some of them had sores, parasites, and tumors. My job was simply to take each person’s blood pressure and pulse, which I didn’t resent at all since I was there to help in whatever way I could. Some of these folks, however, didn’t take kindly to a foreign piece of velcro and plastic strapped to their arm. Which, of course, meant their heart rate was astronomically high.

One wiry woman, probably around forty years of age, sat down in the chair in front of me with eyes the size of golf balls as she eyed the small device I held in my hands, her thin, hollow face a mask of fear. A heavy set man with soft features and kind eyes had his hand on her shoulder to reassure her as I attached the device to her arm. Her heart rate instantly jumped to over 160 beats per minute, and she began visibly panting. She gripped my arm with her right hand in a vise-like grip, which in turn caused my heart rate to skyrocket. We eyed each other, both afraid of what one might do to the other, our hearts mutually running pell-mell until Omot (our nurse) leaned over and told me to just take it off. I gladly complied.

Occasionally I got the feeling that I really wasn’t doing anything of value, then shrugged my shoulders and continued since Omot was making a point of scribbling down all the numbers I relayed to him.

            A group of ladies behind the building, who all spent their days cooking and sewing and spanking children, began preparations for our lunch. One of them hunted down a little boy who couldn’t have been much older than four years old and jabbered at him in machine gun Anuak. He nodded his head deferentially and rounded up a posse of little Ethiopian terrors, and they promptly took off running after a chicken that was wandering the grounds.

            For about ten minutes the chase continued. I found it terribly difficult to focus on my task and observe this frantic chase at the same time. I began to lose hope that the squad of chicken hunters would succeed in their quest, since the chicken clearly outstripped them all in speed on its absurd chunky legs, its beady black eyes wide with unadulterated terror.

            The chicken then made its fatal mistake.

            It ran into the old doctor’s station.

            The yelling, chattering horde of little boys went in hot on its heels. A horrendous squawk sounded within the building. The gang soon sauntered out of the cement block structure, smug grins on their faces, their leader dragging the unfortunate chicken by the legs, frantically squirming and clucking.

            We had chicken for lunch.

When the Chaos Dies

Aragorn plunges his scarred hands into the sink, searching for a plate. Leathery, tan, and roped with bulging veins, his left fumbles with a sponge, while his right grips a plate.
The bubbles swirl around his hairy, muscled forearms, calloused and rough from spending years among the trees and beasts and earth. A shimmering globe of suds drifts near a long, pale, ropy scar, caressing and lingering on the old wound.
He grits his teeth, face pale and cold despite the rising vapor from the steaming, foamy sink. His hands tremble, adrenaline beginning to pump through them.
Screams of men and roars of hellish beasts echo, mingling with the laughter of his children and his wife.
He lifts the plate, seemingly attempting to bore a hole in it with his gaze. A laughing orc's face fills it.
He snarls and scrubs away at the grime on the plate, porcelain squealing from the pressure.
His knees begin to shake.
He calmly set the scratched plate to the side and strode to an old chest, locked and covered in dust, hidden among various other items in his chambers.

Bounding off into the night, clothed in filthy, earth-tinged, blood-stained, wind-whipped cloth and leather, tonight he is not Aragorn the Father, Husband, or King. He is Aragorn, flitting from tree to rock in silence.

Hugging a Cactus

Jesus told a lot of stories when he was here, all of them with some kind of underlying message. I read one the other day found in the beginning of the book of Mark chapter 12, and it hit me like a train.

Here's the scenario:

A guy plants a vineyard. You know, to grow grapes to make wine. He then rented this vineyard out to some local farmers, maybe friends of his, and moved somewhere else like the respectable, successful gentleman the story seems to make him out to be.
Eventually he needs to send some workers to get some fruit from his vineyard, so he does. The people he rented it out to, however, respond in a very vicious manner. They "seized him, beat him, and sent him away shamefully." No doubt the owner was in shock, since he left his land with people he thought he could trust. So he sends another servant, since maybe there was some kind of freak misunderstanding. It happened again. They beat him up and kicked him out.

By now, I'm sure this has the owner really confused and hurt. Let's take this parable by the horns and figure out what on earth Jesus is saying.
For a good long while now, the Israelites had been God's people. His folks. The people group that he promised would generate a savior, a king that would redeem the Israelites and establish his kingdom on earth. His name was going to be Emmanuel, which literally means "God with us." He sent several prophets to tell them this, many of whom were not received very well. Ringing any bells? The beaten, disgraced servants? There you go. God could have given up at that point, but he persisted. Let's continue with the story...

The owner of the vineyard had only his son left to send. His son, "whom he loved." Could he have held on to him? Of course. Did he? No. He sent him anyway, saying "They will respect my son."

You think God hoped we would respect his son when he sent him to this planet? I'm sure he would rather not have to watch him die. Here's the kicker: did he know Jesus was going to die? Yes, he's God. But he sent him anyway.

My gut reaction is to look up and yell "WHY??" If you love him, why the heck did you do that? Why did you send him to a rebellious, straight up evil people, knowing that he would die a horrific death? This is described in my earlier posts, so it should come as no surprise if you've read my other stuff: It's because he loves us so much that we have no concept of the depth of it.

You probably guessed by now that the son is murdered. Betrayed by friends. The implication for those listening is worse, since it's not just a patron that will be betrayed, it's the all-powerful God who made everything. That's scary. Men beating their breasts and screaming defiance to the sky. We are such a lost and depraved people, yet despite our rebellion, he still accepts us. In the story, the owner kills the people he left the vineyard with. That's the only discrepancy, since the owner is still human. God, however, took those people who killed his son, and redeemed them. That's like hugging a cactus with all your might.

My Cup of Morning

I pour the coffee beans into the grinder, individual beans clinking against the sides. Just like every morning. The scent hits my nostrils: pungent, thrumming, bold. It’s the smell of morning, at least to me. My brain slightly twitches, the tingle from my nose reaching my sluggish head.

Chugga chugga. The grinder crunches, whines, smashes. The smell becomes a little bit stronger, shooting into my nose in waves. I pour the grinds into the machine, and turn it on.
The coffee machine grumbles and gurgles, shooting hot water through the dark brown grinds. The whole room is now filled with an earthy, bright aroma, one that makes me want to sit down with a good book.
So, once the coffee is ready, I pour it in a mug and add some cream and sugar. I pick up a book and curl up on the couch, holding my steaming cup of morning.
All hell will break loose in about a half hour, but this is peace.
I plunge myself into the story. A hero, of course, fighting frighteningly colossal powers levied against him. A girl, of course, beautiful, blue eyed, madly in love with the hero and strongly committed to his cause. A wizened old man, guiding the hero and teaching him. An antagonist. Huge, demonic, powerful. Evil; blatantly disregarding any moral boundaries; preying on those unable to protect themselves. A world hanging on the edge of a knife.
My phone rings.

I fold the corner of the page and close the book.

The coffee is cold, and the smell is now mixed with roommates’ burnt toast, eggs, and various shower products as bodies dry from just having used them.

My ears are filled with shuffling chairs, grunting and chattering men, the girl above us who thinks she’s Demi Lovato, and one voice fretting over his charred piece of bread.

I hold the phone in my hand, frantically beeping and buzzing to get my attention. I sigh, and answer it. Let the day begin.

Why Be a Christian?

There's a few folks out there that talk about being "christians."

What's with these guys?

Why on earth do they do it? Are they just following a norm set by their parents and close friends?

Unfortunately, yeah, a lot of them are.

What about the ones who tell homosexuals they're going to hell?

What about the ones who try to hold Koran burnings?

What about the ones who talk about Jesus, but live in sin without caring one whit about it?

With all of these preconceptions in the minds of lots of Americans, it isn't surprising that to some people the whole prospect of being a christian is pretty unappealing.

If it doesn't do anything to you to change you, why be one anyway?

If it just gets you a label and maybe getting to heaven (who knows what happens after we die anyway? No one. That's right.) but life here stays the same, is it even worth it?

Dunno about you, but my answer is no.

So. Is there anything else? Or is it really just something to assuage our consciences until we get put in a box to decompose a few feet underground and fertilize a tree? An aspen would be nice. Bury me by an aspen. I don't want my body feeding a russian olive tree. They smell funny.

Let's rewind. Past aspen trees (and russian olives, thank goodness) and the earth itself. Boom. God makes the universe (just humor me, even if you disagree). He didn't need to, but He did. And on just one planet, he placed a whole bunch of stuff. Water, air, dirt, hyenas, manatees, more dirt, fish, birds, trees (even russian olives), and everything we see on it today.

Then he did something interesting. He said "let us make man in our own image." He made a dude. In HIS image. Whhaaaat??? Why? I don't claim to know His mind, but it pleased Him to make this dude.

Then He made a woman (from this dude) to be the dude's companion, because He said it wasn't good for the dude to be alone. But that's another subject.

He gave the dude and the woman ONE command. They couldn't eat fruit from a specific tree.

You guessed it, they did. Just like a 5 year old kid will eat a lump of cookie dough thirty seconds after mom tells him to stay away from it. They rebelled. From that moment, we were all toast. Sin became a part of every human being from then on.

Kind of a depressing story, yeah? According to God's Word, his manual for us clueless sacks of meat, the punishment for sin is death. Since God is perfect, sin cannot be near Him, so basically, with only this part of the story, we'd all be frying (christians too, along with the people they condemn).

BUT THAT'S NOT ALL! He sent himself as a dude to this planet to mingle with us, teach us a lot of cool stuff, (read the book of John. It's pretty interesting.) and ultimately die a horrific death on a cross for us. For us. To pay that penalty, to take our place.

That's crazy. Why on earth would a perfect God die for a rebellious, filthy lot like us?

The only answer that makes sense is that He loves us. Like crazy.

So basically, with that piece of the story, all ya gotta do is take it. Let Him know that you're fully aware that you're a dirtbag, and need Him and Him alone to take away your dirtbagginess. That's all there is to it.

So why be a christian?

Because the promise is that it doesn't stop there.

Ohhhh no.

You become a totally different person. Over and over and over and over again the new testament talks about "new life", "being transformed", and referring to sin being dead. Dead. Not even twitching. Does it mean that christians are perfect? Nah, of course not. It does mean, however, that sin does not rule them any more. Ever feel like you can't get out of all the garbage you're in? Like you're being engulfed by the world and your own dirtbagginess?

Give Jesus a try. I'll vouch for Him.

You Won't Catch Me

I wrote an essay for my nonfiction writing class, and I'm rather proud of it. Enjoy.



I laced on my shoes, the dim light filtering through the partially drawn window blinds and casting a dim gray glow on my body. I stepped outside and inhaled deeply. The air tasted of water and storm, quickly subduing the storm in my mind. All was still. The sky was filled with a thick gray woolly beast, barging its way across the heavens. The trees stood still, soldiers with their bayonets pointed straight up toward the ominous creature threatening their domain. My feet thudded against the asphalt.
The climb began. Pound. Pound. Pound. My feet meeting the hard ground was a raucous laughter in my ears, no other sound attacked me save for a lawnmower chugging in the distance. Yelling, harsh words, anger. I shook my head, trying to make sense of what had occurred, and why my mind had latched onto something with a death-grip. A breeze tickled the tips of the trees.
Pound. Pound. Pound.
“You are such a JERK!” he screamed, face filled with fury.
Pound. Pound.
“I’m getting out of here.” I headed to my room and grabbed my running shoes.
Pound. Pound. Pound.
The road ran into a canyon, my path squeezed between two rocky looming giants. The beast in the sky began to descend, its massive gray coat darkening, becoming looming raven’s wings and dimming the light even more. The giants folded their gray, boulder covered arms and stood to bar my way, laughing along with the noise of my feet hitting the ground and the beast in the sky.
I turned along a dirt trail that ran across one of the giants’ arms. Allied with the invader lurking the heavens, he called for help. A prick on my neck, and the raven-winged beast began assailing me.
The water came down in torrents, hurled at me with no mercy.
I reveled in the assault.
Water streamed down my face, soaked my shirt, my shorts, and my shoes. My whole body began to numb. The trail swerved, shifted, rose, and fell. Loose rocks threatened to trip me, small frowning warriors called to action by the indignant mountain. My eyes were wide, quivering with undivided attention to the attack on my world. My legs pulsed, energy coursed through them.
Furious, the beast hurled a solid bar of light at the ground, his angry animal yell shaking my body with overwhelming ferocity. Undeterred, I pressed on. Flash. Boom.
Hoarse screams pursued me from my house, sending chills up my spine bigger than the ones the beast managed to conjure in me. I crested a hill and stopped, my mind becoming silent as my legs ceased to move. Turning, I faced the valley below the giant I had encroached upon. I gasped.
Thin gray fingers, a shredded curtain, reached down from the beast as it unleashed its fury on the earth. Large flashes illuminated the dim scene, quickly followed by tremendous blasts, a thousand cannons firing in unison. Water poured down as if the Lord Almighty had lent a heavenly fire-hose to this demonic gray beast. The air beneath the turmoil was clear, giving me a razor sharp view for miles. The mountain ridges on the other side of the valley were shimmering knife-edges, each tree clearly outlined and still pointed resolutely at the massive invader overhead, if shaking a bit more than usual. The houses seemed bright and new, as if they had all been called into existence just this morning. The grass was a deep, shimmering viridescence that swayed and flowed in the wind, a stark contrast to the gloom overhead.
The storm rocked the hinges of the world as I knew it.
But I stood.
Wet, shaking, cold. But I stood.
And I was enjoying it.

Laughing, I sprinted down the hill, thumbing my nose at the furious beast hurling
white-hot spears at me. You won’t catch me. Not yet.

Raisins.

Raisins are delicious.
I love them.
I'll just whip them out and eat em. Nonstop.
Then some genius decided to try covering them with chocolate.
God bless him; he deserves a massive mansion in heaven for that service to the saints right there.
Mansions. One question. Why? What on earth are ya gonna do with all that space? Start some kind of crazy orphanage? Like Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends. I wanna mansion like THAT. I love that show. I never get to watch much of it, but I enjoy each chance I get. TV is just kind of boring, ya know? Boring. If something is boring I try to get out of it ASAP. So why the heck am I in a Law and Politics class? Maybe I should go running or mountain biking or rock climbing instead. Sounds like a lot more fun. But then you get to deal with the financial aid department cuz they get grumpy with your GPA. Ain't gonna fly.
I love flying dreams. I love em. Usually it's associated with a jetpack or superpowers (I never really grew out of my 8 year old imagination) as I shoot around in the air. Jetpacks don't seem like they'd work. I always think it'd burn the bottom half of your torso off. The flames and stuff would have to be past your feet. Maybe I'm taking it way too seriously and I should just shut up and enjoy the flying dreams.
I love this song.
http://grooveshark.com/#!/s/A+Little+Opera+Goes+A+Long+Way/3MDsTY?src=5
SO GOOOOOD!!!
It's pretty stinkin' amazing. It just kind of turned me into a pile of mush.
Speaking of mush, I had oatmeal this morning. I need to buy some brown sugar, 'cuz that was pretty bland. Even with a handful of raisins in it.

btw, here's the beginning of a book that a dude I met at camp is starting to write. You should go check it out.
http://cjobook.blogspot.com/

And, if you so desire, the blog of the dude that wrote that EPICLYSTELLARSONGFULLOFAWESOMEJUICE. Right here:
http://www.ayoungblog.com/

In and Out

In, and out. Back, and forth. Forward, and back.
The water rolled past his head, crusted in sand, and receded for the thousandth time, pulling a small portion of the grit from his face.
A hermit crab, upon noticing this gargantuan invader of its watery homeland, approached the prostrate man with a fearless interest.
It scuttled toward his mouth, opening and closing its tiny pincers menacingly.
The man suddenly let out a low groan, sending the hermit crab scuttling rapidly in the opposite direction as fast as its spindly legs could carry it.
He shifted his arm, consciousness coming to him. He opened a pair of bright yellow eyes and blinked them slowly, attempting to focus.
He frowned at the large gray object filling his vision, still unable to focus his eyes. He tried to lift his right hand to his eyes so as to rub them, but a stabbing pain shot up his arm and made him clench his teeth and squeeze his eyes shut.
The pain served to wake his mind up by a large margin, and a question as to what he was doing lying on a beach with his arm possibly injured sprang to the forefront of his mind. He opened his eyes again and successfully focused them, a large rock with an irate hermit crab perched on it completely blocking his view of his surroundings.
Frowning, he rolled over, careful to keep pressure off of his right arm.
A large expanse of ivory beach met his eyes, sweeping off to the left until it arched behind the landscape. Blue-green waves rolled in, pounding the beach repeatedly like a giant futilely bludgeoning the ground with a rock again and again and again. Palm trees swayed slowly in the ocean breeze, creating a considerable amount of shade. A small brook trickled into the ocean, slightly offsetting the pristine landscape before him.
Seeing the brook reminded him that he was exceptionally thirsty. His throat felt like sandpaper, and his cramped limbs complained at any effort. Is it really that easy? Fresh water twenty feet from me as soon as I come to? He crawled toward the brook using his left arm and his legs, folding his right arm underneath his chest.
The sound of a wave suddenly and violently crashing jolted his mind, and he fell to the ground, causing  a spear of pain to shoot up his right arm a second time. He knew where he was. Two children laughing and playing, and he with them. A woman. Seated and watching the three romp, a smile on her face.
He gasped, and shifted his body weight to keep his right arm from throbbing. The image was gone, and though he reached for whatever he just remembered, he lost it in the depths of his mind. A dull ache remained in his heart, an after-effect of what he had just witnessed.
Irritation filled him.
It's my mind, for Pete's sake, he thought, resuming his slow crawl to the water. I should be able to keep what I want in there!
Grumbling, he reached the brook and plunged his face into the water, taking in as much as he possibly could. It was life entering his veins. It drove the remaining fog from his mind and soothed his aching throat.
He propped himself up on his left arm and stared at the beautiful scene he had been placed in.
So. How did I get here? What's wrong with my arm?
He dug in his mind for answers. None came. Frustrated, he closed his eyes and focused.
Before I woke up. What was there before?
He remained motionless for close to an hour. The sun began to descend, bathing the landscape in a peach-tinged light and turning the foamy crests of the waves to gold.
He threw his head back and yelled in frustration. He stumbled to his feet and promptly collapsed, landing on his right arm again. With clenched teeth and wide, furious eyes, he somehow managed to keep from releasing every curse he knew.
Explosions. Guns firing and shells going off amid the sound of crashing waves, mixing dissonantly with the softer, receding waves right next to him. Men yelling, in fear, pain, and anger.
He gasped, jolted back to his tired body lying on the beach. The adrenaline remained, mixing with his still aching heart.
What was that?
He reached for whatever he had just seen, but he may as well have captured the wind in a jar. The emotions remained, racking his body with such an odd mix of anger, fear, adrenaline, and heart ache that he felt he might explode.
He rolled over and punched the sand with all of his might, jarring his whole body.
"I don't want to be in some kind of limbo, here! Hello? Is anyone listening? Is there some kind of fairy, or demon, or spirit, or god or something messing with me? Leave me alone!" he screamed, throwing a rock with his good arm at a palm tree. The rock thudded to the ground several feet short of his target, which only served to increase his irritation.
"What gives? You think you're funny, don't you?"
"Oh, I think I'm hilarious, actually."
He swung his head around in a panic, looking for the owner of the unknown voice.

Names

Do you ever mull over your name in your head?
Do you ever do it so intensely, and in so focused of a manner on the phonetics and the physical appearance of it on paper that it becomes almost alien in your mind?
Does it become a stand-alone concept that you suddenly have an outside view upon, as if you are a stranger with no name looking down upon it?
Does it strike you how bizarre and wonderful it is that we use odd combinations of sounds to create a unique mark to identify you?

Maybe I'm just crazy.

If not with your name, then how about other words? Even one as simple as shoe. Think about it. Focus on the word. Give a half-minute or so.

SHOE

Is it weird yet?
No?
Pah.

God's Word says that He holds our names in the palm of His hand. (Is. 49:16) Whaaaaaat? The creator of the universe as we know it holding us. Why? Why would He want to hold insecure, messed up people like us, who are only going to turn around and repeatedly disappoint Him?

I guess the only answer that would make sense is that He loves us. Like, a ton. Enough that He decided to send Jesus to die for us, so that when we turn around and do something that hurts Him, it's paid for already. (John 3:16, Rom. 3:23-24, Eph. 2:8-9, Rom. 6:23, 1 John 2:2)

Wowzer. I don't get love like that. But it's the kind of love He wants me to have for people, even the ones that annoy me, or hurt me. It's the kind of love that can seriously do some damage in this world (good damage. If that's even possible :P).

He wants YOU. As weird or messed up as the person behind your name may be. In view of this, all I can really say is

WHOAAAAAAA

And maybe drool a little bit, and possibly scratch my head in bewilderment. Pardon me while I go get a mop to clean up my saliva.

Silence.

I haven't written a post in a while, but I'm also feeling rather lazy. So here's a modified version of a scene I scribbled in my notebook the other day. Enjoy.

*WARNING: Contains arguably boyish concepts of guns, war, and snooping about in the woods. If you have an aversion to those kinds of things, go frolic in someone else's blog. I'm toying more with the concept of silence and fear, and dealing with a deadly force with unknown motives on top of it all than I am with the guns and military-esque stuff.


Somewhere in Washington, Year 2139
I breathed heavily, trying not to let my nervousness show. I adjusted my weapon across my chest, waiting for the man lying motionless next to me to give the signal. The fog filtered through the trees above our heads, like a gray blanket wrapping the pines' cold fingers in a dull swath of chilled air. I exhaled, adding my minuscule contribution to the mist surrounding us. Though foreboding, it was a welcome sight to our wide, apprehensive, fear-stricken eyes. For it would provide a covering for us as we continued in our silent trek across the forest floor.

We weren't supposed to be the prey in this equation. But we all felt as if we were. Our quarry was unlike anything we had ever faced. We were the best the government had. But they used to have better.

Grey Wolf was a silent, highly trained, incredibly efficient sector of the armed forces. It served as the silent persuasive element in society if things were to get out of hand. For this reason it was public knowledge, but no one ever spoke of it. It was the shadow behind the politicians, the knife hidden in the folds of the cloak. It was fear incarnate, and it had a harness on every man, woman and child in the country.

And it had defected.

Not two weeks before this very nervous squad was marching through the trees in Washington, every single Grey Wolf operative had vanished. In a span of 90 seconds all communication was lost. In a span of 48 hours every single military installment in the state of Washington had disappeared without a trace. And the only thing that anyone in the country heard since then was what Grey Wolf did best. Silence. The iron fist had no overseer, no fail-safe. The gunship in the harbor had no anchor. So, for unknown reasons, it turned on its commander.

That was where we came in. We were what the armed forces had that could possibly hope to challenge this infestation as our briefing labeled it. Our record was extensive, second only to Grey Wolf. But that's not what they told us. We were the best. We were the more effective arm of the military. Grey Wolf was an occasionally incompetent bunch, incapable at times they said, and we were more than capable of eliminating the threat. But we all knew that we didn't have anywhere near the ability required to purge an entire state of its military presence in 2 days in complete silence. They did.

In my periphery the shape next to me signaled silently to move. Slowly, we all rose, weapons covering as many angles as possible. We began walking, as silently as we could, silently, swiftly, silently. Every leaf that crinkled beneath our feet made us all wince. We were hardly willing to breathe faster, or shift our packs, or step more quickly.

We hadn't spoken a word for 3 days now. Sleep was near impossible to get, even though we were all exhausted. The world around us had slowly but surely turned into a shadowy twilight-tinged scene that never lost its constant pulse of fear. A silhouette of any kind that could become a lone figure with a gun became one in our minds. We slid past every possible hiding place with the utmost hesitation and wariness. Stands of trees became dens of goblins, boulders became looming giants, beds of pine needles became crouching savages waiting for a victim. Nightmares blended with reality.

We descended into a small ravine, a crevice in the mountain. It was my turn to take point, a task that none of us relished in this particular operation. My eyes darted around, searching every dark corner, every bush, every tree for a sign of movement.

"You are surrounded. You have 10 seconds to drop your weapons."

The voice, although it was barely above a whisper, held all the force of a bellowed command. The silence had been shattered by a hammer blow. We all froze for a moment, fully expecting to die. When the unknown man's statement finally made its way into our minds, we hurriedly threw down our guns and raised our hands in the air.

The forest became our fears as it morphed around us. A shadow bounded over a boulder to our left and slowly advanced toward us, gun raised. The bark on a tree to our right peeled away and turned to face us, steel pointed at our trembling bodies. A bed of pine needles behind us shifted, slowly rising to observe us. Most surprising to me, what I could have sworn was a rock not ten feet before me stood, a gun materializing in his hands. The owner of the voice slowly emerged from the fog, pistol at his side. The shadows in our minds had come to life.

Lovely Old Music Videos

I have descended into internet boredom. Which sometimes means watching youtube videos. I happened to come across this lovely piece of videographical genius:

Notice the lovely attire worn by these upstanding gentlemen as they play an
EPIC SONG
that will forever be slightly tainted in my mind by that awful mullet, wife beater, and heavily used pair of jeans. I think he soaked them in bacon grease and tossed em to a bear at the zoo for a few minutes.


Another.

SO. MUCH. CHEESE.
As my pappy would say,
"That's enough cheese to make a whole TRUCKLOAD of nachos."
Note the woman mullet at 2:00. One word. Ick.


Hopefully I won't blow your mind by the artistic genius of yet another music video from a while back.

Still don't know how that man made it on as a judge for American Idol.
Anywho.
Have a fantastic Saturday. Hopefully this post has ruined some oldies for you.

IRK

Irk. I love that work. Such a concise, terse, wonderful way to express frustration. Meester Webster says that irk = to irritate, annoy, or exasperate. Why on earth would you say you're exasperated when you could just say that you are irked by something? It's much shorter, and quite a bit more fun to say.

Here's a few irksome things that, in my humble opinion, should be burned and their ashes stamped upon, then ingested by a large waterfowl and excreted in some rank, bubbling swamp where they will forever exist in utter isolation.


Wasps.

Ya know how good it feels when somebody hides what's really going on behind your back? Yeah, me neither. Shoot straight with me, please. I'd much rather you tell me that you think I'm a dirtbag than drop little irksome statements about me.

Justin Beiber. Don't know why? Read these lyrics:
http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/justinbieber/boyfriend.html
and then come back and tell me that your hope in humanity has been lost in a dank, dark cave of shallow lyrics and auto-tune, and that your IQ has dropped by 20 points. It'll happen. Read at your own risk.

They're. Their. There. Its. It's. Your. You're. I think this is generally ranted about, beaten, stabbed, and clubbed constantly on the internet, but I'm going to kick it in the head once more. If there is an apostrophe, it means that there are TWO words jammed into one. Think about it. If you want to say "OMG I'm going to you're party tomorrow! Its gonna be soooo fun!" on facebook in an excessive burst of exaggerated excitedness, (b/c people get away with that on the internet everyday), DON'T. Because if you do, I will show up at your front door with this.

Think about it. If there is an apostrophe, there is missing text and/or space that you need to add the picture. Sound it out. "OMG I am going to you are party tomorrow. Its gonna be so fun!" Seems to me that you're looking for the word that tells your friend that you are indeed going to his or her party. Since "you're" didn't work, use the other one. Your. Since "Its" has no apostrophe, it won't separate into "it is." You can't just open up a word wormhole and generate the implied space and extra "i." English isn't THAT crazy of a language.

The youtube videos that don't allow your mouse pointer to disappear. Yes, it's only a tiny pointer. And yes, it aggravates (irks) me to no end.

Wannabe gangsters. And real ones, too. Pull your pants up and respect those around you, please. Humans have invented these wondrous devices called belts that keep your pants above your batookus. If you call yourself a gangster, but you respect your surroundings and contribute to society, cool beans. I'm not one to stereotype irrationally.

When people incorrectly shout: "That's so racist!" If I say, "There's a mexican working in that restaurant," it isn't racist. It's a neutral statement. That fella is making money for himself, so good for him. He's one-upping the white guy down the street who's playing World of Warcraft all day. If I say something derogatory about someone based on their ethnicity, then I'm being racist. And you would be right to call me on it.

Horseradish. Tastes nothing like horse or radishes. Not that I'd know, but I doubt horse meat tastes like the salty tears of Poseidon soaked in a radish for two years.

b8ing facebook statuses.

"I'm so depressed."

"@&#$ some &^$#*@ people just !@(*&# tick me off...."

"When will it ever stop?"

That's infuriating (irksome) in and of itself, but then when someone comments with "What's up?" and the drama king/queen IMMEDIATELY responds with "text me," it. irks. me. even. more. We can all tell that all you want is attention. If you're having a rough go of life, talk to someone you trust and ask for advice, don't post your veiled problems to a social networking site where hundreds of other people will see it, and then refuse to say what exactly is going on. I, for one, have unsubscribed from updates for several people on facebook. I don't really have the heart to unfriend most people since I want to see what they're up to from time to time, but I don't need to see it when all I want to do is waste time on facebook in peace.

Spellcheck when I know I don't want to change what I wrote. In case you haven't noticed, I put misspelled words in this blog all the time to make a point, and I don't have any desire to change them. Lemme misspelllll in pEAcee!! Eez for humors!

When people make up words in scrabble. And it just so happens to be in the dictionary.

Pringles cans. How on earth am I supposed to jam my hand in there? Are they discriminating against anyone that doesn't have puny hands? I want my pringles, not an ice pack to soothe my hand after trying to jam it in the stupid can. I was irked about that looooooong before it became a thoroughly used joke on the internet, thank you very much. I'm an irk hipster. An irkster.

Small dogs that think they're roaring rabid ravenous towering hulking growling grunting grizzly bears. Sometimes I reeeeally wish I could drop kick a chihuahua. Not really. But kind of.

Tailgaters. Maybe I DO need to scrape the encrusted insect entrails, dirt, and hard water stains off of my bumper, but I don't need you to do it for me.

Hopefully you gained some nugget of appreciation for all of the wonderfully irksome things out there, if only that you learned what irk means. If you didn't, then it's quite possible that you irk me. A lot.

I Told You So

            I pulled on my work jeans, covered with holes and paint and oil and a plethora of other stains put there by Lord knows what. I dug through my closet until I found my old hiking boots, and tied them on. I ran up the stairs and out the door, scanning the garage wall for the used helmet we’d found on eBay. I strapped it on and walked to my loyal steed.

            My dirt bike is of the same general quality as my attire was that day. Honda 200XR, made in 1980, 13 years before I was born. My brother, who was accompanying me on our excursion, was riding a machine of even higher quality. Honda 175XR, 1976. I was in the process of mounting my bike when the garage door flew open and my mother poked her head out of the house.

            Apparently, a t-shirt was not appropriate attire for riding a motorcycle on a rocky dirt road. Of course, my immense skill at navigating the obstacles on the trail would prevent any injury, so I negated her request that I wear something ‘safer.’ She frowned at me, but I must have sufficiently assured her that my trail riding ability was high enough to keep me from getting impaled or some other nonsense because she shut the door with a 'harrumph' and dropped the issue. Mothers are incredibly irrational at times.

            After spending a couple of minutes harassing our motorcycles until they sputtered to life, we were off. Even my off-balance front tire couldn’t keep my spirits down, the bike slightly bouncing beneath me. Cache Valley in Northern Utah was putting on a fine show that day. The mountains were beautiful, and from our view on the shelf in Providence we could see the whole valley spread out before us.

            Our destination was Millville canyon, through which a rocky, steep road ran. It proved to be quite a challenge in places. Of particular interest and enjoyment to me were large banked turns that sporadically appeared. After testing a few of them, I decided I wanted to hit one of them fast enough to ride on the top of the curve. Being adept at riding a dirt bike, of course, I was confident that I could execute it perfectly. I spotted one of them coming up, and waited for my brother to ride farther ahead.

            I gunned the bike, switching gears when the engine began to squeal too loudly. At that moment a small voice in the back of my head asked me if I was sure I wanted to try this on a dirt bike made in 1980 in shredded jeans, a t-shirt, and a used helmet. I mentally laughed that part of my brain off and leaned forward, goosing the engine a little bit more.

            The first part of the turn was wonderfully exhilarating. So exhilarating, in fact, that I took my eyes off of where my tires were and looked to the end of the turn so I could get the full effect of riding a large hunk of metal sideways. The result of this was that my unchecked front tire slipped over the top of the dirt bank.

            The bike quite suddenly disappeared from beneath me. I had a very short moment to wish I had put on a long-sleeved shirt before I connected with Mother Earth, skidding across the rocky ground. When I came to rest on my stomach, my left arm awkwardly folded beneath me, I decided I would remain there for a few seconds. When I could breathe normally again (having had the wind knocked out of me), I rolled over and sat up slowly, some of my muscles protesting the effort. My bike was on its side, the engine still chugging feebly. I examined myself and discovered that I had sustained several cuts and lost a few small patches of skin on my torso and left leg. My attention then swung to my throbbing left forearm, and I found that I was missing quite a bit of skin, exposing a raw, bleeding strip roughly six inches in length and an inch wide. By this time my brother had realized I was no longer following him and was sitting on his bike behind me.

            I sighed, and walked slowly to my fallen warhorse. I picked it up, and we set off down the road. I was attempting to push all thoughts of my mother out of my mind at that moment, but the wind hitting my bare, bleeding forearm was very forcefully pushing her warning to wear a long-sleeved shirt back into my brain. Needless to say, I didn’t attempt to ride any more of the dirt banks.

            When we returned home, I entered the kitchen. Unbeknownst to me, my mother had invited a friend of hers over for lunch. Her friend was horrified at my appearance, covered in dirt and blood, smelling like gasoline and wearing clothes that would have been a better fit on a hobo. My mother’s facial expression was satisfied, slightly worried, but much more of the former than the latter. No words needed to be said for me to know what she was thinking. I told you so.

Creation

I'm stopping right in the middle of studying a mountain-sized pile of information for a whopping 4 cumulative finals next week to write this. So do me a favor and ENJOY IT. If you don't, then go away. Take your snarky comments to one of Justin Bieber's music videos.

I went on a run. It was a nice run. Some people don't get running. They say it's painful, and makes you sweat to a rather nasty degree, and leaves you with more sore muscles than you thought you had on your lower body. But I went anyway. Because for some reason I can think so much more clearly when I run than when I don't.

I was feeling a wee bit spontaneous and bold (week before finals does that to you) so I thought a six or seven mile run would be a good thing to shoot for, despite my not-quite-in-shape self. By mile two I was wondering what on earth gave me that impression as my legs cried out for mercy and my lungs repeatedly stabbed me in the chest to remind me that I needed more air.

But then I somehow achieved the fabled "runner's high" and all of a sudden I felt like I could punch a bear.

So I ran. And I ran and ran. Unfortunately I didn't come across any bears, but I ran. And I ran to the shoreline trail rimming Cache Valley. Then I sat on a rock. A rather nice rock, as it gave me a perfect perch for gazing out over the valley.

I was planning on taking just a short two minute break to check out the view, but it turned into a ten minute break.



I don't know why it's so easy for us to forget how beautiful the world we live in is. I don't know how those images fade so quickly from our minds when we return to the giant rat race. I don't know how it happens, even though cute little Logan nestled in the mountains took my breath away yet again.

I saw sprawling fields where farmers made their livelihood encasing the city of Logan. I saw a forest of shaded, verdant trees planted in Logan, so as to make much of the city invisible. Occasionally a building would sprout up from the trees, or the forest would part to show a few of the houses covering the valley floor like ants on a patch of concrete.

The sky was blue, invaded by a few gray clouds. But blue is too rough a word though to describe that sky. A deep, electric, vibrating blue that seemed to have energy of its own. It was the kind of blue that you almost seem to float into if you stare at it long enough.

I saw the mountains, their legs blanketed by green carpet. I saw their dull gray stony heads poking out from their lush kilts. They seemed immovable guardians of the valley, encasing it with their colossal arms. They seemed impenetrable, unbreakable, ever watchful over their charges.

Then my thoughts swung to God. The Bible tells us that He formed the mountains. That they tremble in His presence. If this is true, then I hold God in less reverence and awe than I ought to on a regular basis.

Try to picture one of those behemoths actually trembling in God's presence. That's a side of God we don't think about too often, is it?



I concluded my run with my head up and my eyes drinking in as much as I could get them to. I don't know how people get so attached to their precious hamster wheels, but it happens to me all the time. So do yourself a favor. Go on a walk, if running isn't your thing. Push everything else out of your brain, and just try to appreciate the area you live in. Because there are incredible things all around us that we skim over without a second thought every day.




I never did find a bear.

Orange Zombies

This post comes to you at 10:30 MST, right in the middle of studying for a chemistry test. I am tired, brain-dead, and I feel the need to vent.

I have an app on my macbook that I downloaded for free from the app store. The sole purpose of this app is simply to waste time. There's no other possible use for it.

You run around on a two dimensional surface devoid of any decoration as a man in a gray t-shirt and jeans, carrying a shotgun and wearing earmuffs. The wonderful thing about this shotgun is that you can fire as many times as you wish. The creator of this game must have received his inspiration from every movie ever made involving guns.

Anywho, with only these aspects, the game would be incredibly boring as there would be nothing to shoot. The catch: orangish-pink humanoid zombie demon figures spawn endlessly into this map. Your goal: survive as long as possible while blowing the snot out of every one of these things you can find. Bloody? Of course. Cheesy? Naturally. Boring? Only if you've been doing something other than study chemistry for hours on end.

After massacring dozens of these growling, unintelligent creatures, something occurred to me.

Do I want to spend the rest of my life shooting orange zombies?

Do I want to pour my life into something that is fun at first, but becomes incredibly dull as time goes on?

Or....do I want to shoot PINK zombies? Yellow zombies? Chartreuse zombies? Puce zombies? Bright blue zombies? Zombies that vary? Zombies that require something different than a shotgun to defeat, like  a rocket launcher or a machine gun or a didgeridoo?

Do I want to shoot these zombies alongside other people who are good at shooting other types of zombies? Who, maybe, do it in a different way than I do?

I hope the metaphor was obvious enough for you to catch it. If you didn't get it, it's because you can't identify with demon zombies and you need to become more tolerant.

Sleeping on Campus

My career options as a professional napper widened tremendously when I began to attend Utah State University. The school had wisely placed couches, lovesacs, and benches all across campus. These provisions of heavenly cushiness make it incredibly easy to catch up on some sleep on the go, as well as make your favorite study area cozy. Here are a few I have encountered in my travels, and how one can best utilize them.

Highest user rated nap spot:

Building: TSC 3rd floor, diversity center.

Object of repose: SENA

-This Specially Engineered Napping Apparatus (SENA), erroneously known as the "lovesac", is the top in campus napping. It is strategically placed in a room with large, south facing windows, bathing the napper in sunlight to maximize comfort. The SENA itself is enormous, approximately 6 feet in diameter, and downy enough to make Chuck Norris drool like a dog salivating over a piece of juicy, succulent bacon. The effect is that the user is engulfed by a full-body swath of feathery cloud. The only negative aspect of SENA is that it is virtually impossible to study in it and expect to remain cognizant. One might make a comparison to scrubbing oneself with a ribeye steak and running through the lion cage at the zoo, all the while expecting to make it alive to the other side. Overall productivity decreased by an average of 96% while using SENA. If your intended use for it is something other than taking a glorious nap, you may want to invest time in another locale.

UPDATE:
They removed the lovesac! You have no idea how distraught I am about this. I suppose you can use the couches they still have in there, but it's just not the same...


Pleasant weather snoozing spot:

Building: N/A
Object of repose: Bench

-While it isn't the most comfortable place one might catch those elusive Zs, it is definitely one of the most pleasant when the temperature reaches that heavenly level of ambience. Only recommended if exhaustion is moderate or above. The most common strategy used is placing the backpack behind the head as one would a pillow, and staring up into the sky until sleep ensnares you. If you are planning on taking an extended siesta, you may wish to ensure that you will be constantly kept in sunlight for the duration of your nap.


Notable snoring center:

Building: Library
Object of repose: Study Cubicle

-This, unlike the SENA, is designed to maximize productivity. However, at any given point in time on a university campus, there will always be mentally and physically fatigued students that simply don't have the time to turn aside to the nearest couch and conk out. Therefore, the study cubicle can be used as a last resort if the student simply must have a short respite from the day. Nappers are urged to put some kind of large book on the flat surface in front of them and place their face on top of it. This usually requires a large amount of exhaustion, and should only be used as a last resort.


So, if you find yourself on USU campus, and are in need of a nap, just plunk yourself down on a couch and doze for a spell. Desperate measures can be taken if you are a self-righteous, haughty, swollen-brained napper who thinks they cannot turn aside from their structured path, but you should never be without a place to crash on campus.

Onomatopoeia

So. Somehow I've managed to coerce you into reading this thing. I figure I'm pretty good at expressing my views on paper, but not so good at the words-coming-out-of-my-mouth thing. So I'll stick one of these up for your enjoyment every once in a while.
I never quite saw myself as the bloggin' type, but after reading Owl City's blog and that of my good friend Maeve I figured I'd give it a go.

(Go give 'em a read. They're both pretty stinking awesome)
Maeve: http://musicrantsrandomness.blogspot.com/
Owl City (Adam Young): http://owlcityblog.com/

Just for kicks and giggles, here's a list I spewed out the other day. Entitled: Things I Love. Yes, it totally sounds like something a first grader would write, but I wrote it anyway. (Heck, if you're going to read this you may as well know some of the stuff that makes me happy)

The sound fingers make when they slide across guitar strings

Nutella

Jesus

Spending time with God on a chilly morning

Running in the rain

Skiing

Playing Soccer

The smell/feel of freshly washed sheets

The feeling you get after a long run

Feeling God’s love when I need comfort the most

Fast Breaks

Kids

Things that explode

Playing strange video games with my family

My Family

My Mama

My Da

My little brother who’s not actually little

My little sister and brother who are both actually little

My dogs
The smell of my grandparents' house
The fort in their backyard
My grandpa's pachinko machine
My grandparents

Dogs in general

Coffee on a snowy Saturday

COFFEE

The snow

Back scratches

When someone plays with my hair

A good sneeze

Crying my face off when I need to get it out

Doing well on a test

Breezes

Dodgeball

The smell outside after a rain

Playing in the snow

Sweating while working hard on something

Painting walls. The mess, the smell, the social time, all of it.

Doing things with friends who are as weird as you are.

Running down hallways

Climbing things

Red rock country in Southern Utah

New socks

The part of the haircut when they use the buzzer on the back of my neck

Gettin' all twitterpated
Confiding in my dog

Mountain lakes

The kind of green you can only find if you go to a pine forest

Campfire smell

Finding God when I least expect it

The sky

Huge, angry thunderheads

Sunsets

Sunrises

The way a new book smells

Soft towels

Exploring mountainous areas

Aloe on sunburned skin

Hugs. Real ones, not awkward/wimpy ones.

Making people laugh

Laughing at other people’s jokes

Laughing

Yelling my head off at a sporting event

Playing baseball

Mountain Biking

Skiing with people you love to be around

Spring skiing

Skiing in a blizzard

Sleeping after a hard day of skiing

SLEEP

Mud

Fireworks

Swing dancing

KAZOOS

Having something to smile about

The psalms

The bright pink in a sunset

The vast, electric blue in a deep lake, the kind that you can stare at for a long time and not get bored

Chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream

Thought-provoking song lyrics

12 string guitars

Putting balloons under car tires to make the driver think something in the car broke

The word 'Onomatopoeia'

Onoooomatopoeia. Savor that puppy. That was kind of lengthy-ish and I'm sure you didn't read the whole thing (given the cheesy title) but there you have it. This whole blog thang is still really odd. I can literally talk about whatever I want to and no one can tell me otherwise!

So. There's me. In a large-ish nutshell. Maybe it's a genetically enhanced walnut shell or something...